I DREAMT that I gazed at the Marble Arch,
King Fog and King Coal at my side,
The soot of November, the dust-storms of March
Had made it a sight to deride.
I said all the foreigners think, I'll be bound,
To our City this thing is a shame;
But I guess 'twill be found, when next Season comes round,
That its state is much the same.
It _does_ want a wash, there's no doubt about that,
For the marble's a dull, dirty brown;
That is, where it isn't as black as your hat--
_Can't_ they clean it while Swelldom's from Town?
Marble? Deft TADEMA, I will be bound,
Would say 'tis not worthy the name;
But I'd wager a pound, when next Season comes round,
We shall find it still the same.
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